


finders keepers, losers weepers

by fallfreely



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, POV Outsider, Pining, boys being stupid, louis is a smartass, uni au without the uni
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallfreely/pseuds/fallfreely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis has a drunken revelation about two of his mates that actually turns out to be 100% accurate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	finders keepers, losers weepers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andwhatyousaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andwhatyousaid/gifts).



> This is a fill for andwhatyousaid's beautiful prompt over at [The Great Lirry Ficathon](http://badjujuboo.livejournal.com/438705.html). I in no way did the prompt justice, but I hope you like it anyway, dollface! I expect a lump sum of non-sequential bills to be deposited in my mailbox by midnight, jsyk.
> 
> Thanks to my [soniya](http://kaamchor.tumblr.com/) and the lovely [amberbamba](http://archiveofourown.org/users/amberbamba) for running their eyes over this for me before I posted it, you're both gems.
> 
> Standard disclaimers about this being a total non-representation of reality apply.

“Ugh, this beer tastes like fresh piss,” Liam says, wincing down another swig.  
  
“You have a really manful, stoic air about you sometimes, Liam Payne, you know that? It’s true,” Louis tells him. He swings an arm over Liam’s shoulders. It’s easier to do than normal, with Louis sat up on a stool, and Liam standing against the bar like that.  “Also, welcome to the land of adults! Population: all of us. And now, finally, you.”  
  
“I’ve had a lager before, Lou, you might remember. The morning after your last birthday still gives me nightmares. Oh, and it was Christmas, too, thanks for that. Love spending the holidays on the floor of the loo in my flat.”  
  
“I do what’s best for you, Li, I’m here for you like that. Look at all these valuable, character-building experiences you’ve had, since meeting me.” Louis gestures expansively, swaying in his seat, and Liam braces like an anchor against the sea, keeping Louis from tipping out. It’s possible Louis might be a few beers ahead of Liam, already.  
  
“Dunno how I’ve survived you and Harry both,” Liam says, pushing Louis upright. “You both seem set on building my character. I must have the most character of anyone around.”  
  
Louis pats Liam on the head by way of showing his gratitude, laughing when Liam shoos him off the shorter, artfully tousled ‘do that he’d learnt from long hours under Lou’s pomaded hands and tutelage. Louis feels a bit like a proud mother. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: you’re welcome, Liam. You’re quite welcome.”  
  
Everything about Liam right now screams ‘on the pull,’ actually: the styled hair, the tighter-than normal t-shirt, the fitted jeans, the most unscuffed pair of Converse Liam owns—all summoned for the purpose of trying to find a date, and all pretty much standard Liam-wear, by this point. Louis just doesn’t get it. For all that Liam is—objectively speaking—a lovely, fit bloke, with the sweetest, most unassuming disposition of anyone Lou’s ever met—lately, Liam just can’t seem to hold down a relationship. He’s struck out massively for the last three months, by Lou’s count. It doesn’t make any sense.  
  
And speaking of Liam’s strike outs: “Heya, isn’t that—what’s her face—Susie, Susana?” Louis points across the bar, over by the jukebox. Standing next to a rather tallish, familiar figure.  
  
Liam looks. “Oh, you mean with Harry? Yeah, that’s Susan. From my Compositions workshop.”  
  
“You asked her out, didn’t you? How’s that going, then?”  
  
Liam shrugs, fiddling with the label on his beer. “Not much to say, really. We went for a coffee, then I asked her round for dinner and a flick. Hazza started chatting her up, and they—they, well, they clicked pretty fast.” Liam takes a drink, doesn’t wince as hard as he normally does over it. “It happens, no big deal.”  
  
“Wait,” Louis says, dropping his own bottle onto the bartop, a bit harder than intended. “You’re saying that bint has been hooking up behind your back?”  
  
“She’s not a bint; she’s lovely, really.”  
  
“Not Susan—Harry, you idiot.”  
  
“It was never behind my back.” Liam shifts his feet. “They were really straightforward about it. Hazza even asked me if I was cool with it, which, why wouldn’t I be? He’s a good mate.”  
  
Louis turns towards Liam, narrowing his eyes. “So, then, they’re dating. Haz and Suz.”  
  
“Er, well, I don’t know about that. They hooked up a few times?” Now Liam looks distinctly uncomfortable. “You know how he is, though.”  
  
‘Slag,’ Louis thinks, but doesn’t say. Giant, curly-haired slattern. Which is fine, they’ve all taken the piss out of Harry for it plenty of times before. He usually grins, and blinks slow, and lets it all roll over him—just like everything else, the bastard.  
  
Except there’s a suspicion growing in Lou’s mind, now, an unspooling thread that he can’t quite shake out. “Didn’t he date that one girl you fancied, too? Last month—the waitress, from the Pizza Express,” Louis asks.  
  
“Marcia? Yeah, I s’pose. But, we never—I mean, she was the one who asked Harry out. I was there when it happened; funny story, that.”  
  
Louis doesn’t stop to pursue the story: he’s like a dog that’s got his teeth into something, he’s not about to let it go. “Okay, but like, before that, too—there was Robby, from your track team. You two were actually dating, weren’t you?”  
  
“For a second, if that long.” Liam’s frowning back at Louis, now. “We weren’t a good match, so what?”  
  
“But he went with Harry to the _Kings of Leon_ concert—and they—oh—they were totally shagging after that, weren’t they?”  
  
Louis wants to crow when Liam pulls a face, because ha! See! Lou’s right about this—but then Louis immediately feels terrible, because realizing one of your best mates has been dicking around with people your other best mate happens to fancy—well. That can’t mean anything good, can it?  
  
“It’s hardly Harry’s fault,” Liam says, stubbornly defending him. “I mean, I was there when Robby asked him to go, too, and Harry’d barely done more than smile at him.”  
  
Louis has as much fondness for Harry’s waifish curls and dimpled smiles as the next human being with eyes, but even Louis doesn’t reckon they warrant this much blind loyalty. He says, “But what about the bro code, Li, come on. Does all that really seem fair and, like, reasonable to you?”  
  
Liam just laughs, though. “Are you kidding me?” he says. “Are you saying I should get brassed when people think Harry’s fit? I wouldn’t have anyone left to talk to.”  
  
“If you say so,” Louis says. He’s not convinced. “You just seem to have uncommonly bad luck, mate. Romantically speaking. I’m just saying—what if it’s not always a coincidence, you know?”  
  
Liam rolls his eyes. “You’re mad.” They sit in silence for a bit, finishing off their warming beers, and then Liam bursts the conversation back open again with: “Anyway, have you forgotten about Dani? Beautiful, smart, Economics major? We were together for six months, last term? Alright, yes, sure, it was bad luck she had to transfer out for her graduate courses—but she and I knew about it from the start of things, knew we couldn’t last.”  
  
And Liam has that wistful look on his face, same as he’d done ever since their break-up, but at least the hurt seems to have faded, the bruised sadness gone from around his eyes. It makes Louis think back to those first few weeks, after: he remembers how fussy Harry’d been over Liam, barely letting him out of his sight; how Louis and Niall had tried to get Liam to come out with them to the pub half a dozen times, drink away his sorrows, and how Harry'd just looked at Liam with those sleepy green eyes, all like, “You sure you're ready? We can do one in, if you like, get pizza, watch _300_ or something,” — and Liam had just folded into Harry like old laundry, every time, nodding and agreeing to stay.  
  
Louis hadn't thought much about it, back then—they’re Harry and Liam, they’ve known each other the longest, out of the group; they can finish each other’s sentences, they have dance parties to Jay-Z on Saturday mornings, they know how to fix each other’s teas, and coffees—so what. They’re roommates, they’re close, it’s normal.  
  
And Louis still wouldn’t think much about it, would probably chalk up his paranoia to being drunk, and jaded by nature, and let it go—except now, there—yeah, that’s the third time he’s caught Harry glancing over here at the bar, while he's still talking to Susan—and that's weird, isn't it? Why doesn't Harry just come over and say hi if he wants to. They’re all having a night out together, in theory. Well, Niall’s working, technically, and Zayn’s fucked off to chain-smoke and fret about his Classics term paper, but whatever. It’s a boy’s do, same as every Friday. There’s no call for Harry to be skulking around like that, chatting up birds he stole right out of Liam’s sad, lonely hands.  
  
“Listen,” Louis says, ducking his head next to Liam’s, lowering his voice, although it’s not like anyone can hear them over the ambient roar of the weekend-night crowd. “Listen—you still have her number, right? Dani’s number? You should text her, like, as an experiment. Ask if Harry ever tried it on with her.”  
  
“Louis,” Liam says, harsh, jerking back. A deep furrow appears between his brows. He says, “I won’t.”  
  
Louis presses. “Why—do you think she’ll say yes?”  
  
“Come on, Tommo. This isn’t funny anymore, yeah? I’m kind of over it.”  
  
“Who says I'm joking? Just text her, bro. I'll shout your tab for the rest of the term if I'm wrong, swear I will.”  
  
Liam nearly growls. “Fine. But just to prove how much of a prat you are, that's the only reason.” He pulls his mobile out from his pocket, mouth turned down into a frown as his thumb sweeps over the face of it, typing out a short—probably completely misspelled—text. He doesn’t show Louis what it says, but when he’s done he lifts an eyebrow at Louis, saying, “There, happy now?”  
  
“Thrilled,” Louis says, waving Niall over from the end of the bar. He needs another drink.  
  
By the time he’s halfway through it, though, a pretty blonde girl has come up to Liam, chatting with him a bit. After a few minutes, he gets out that bright, inviting smile of his—the one that’s hardest to turn down—and asks the girl to dance. It’s what’s she’s been angling for all along, so Louis doesn’t see why Liam should grin so delightedly when she agrees, putting a hand on his bicep to lead him out. His irritation seems forgotten, charmed away, but Liam does shoot Louis one last look over his shoulder as they head off, as if to say: ‘See? Just who’s so unlucky?’  
  
Harry wanders over, soon after that. He’s alone.  
  
“Hiya,” Harry says, same lazy drawl as ever, but Louis can still tell he’s had almost as many pints as Louis has by this point in the evening. It’s all in how he holds himself too carefully: Harry’s normally careless grace turned loose, flyaway.  
  
“Hey yourself,” Louis says back.  
  
“Who's that, with Liam?” Harry asks. He doesn’t point, but gestures out to the dance floor with his chin, making a loop of curls flip heavily over his forehead. Louis follows his gaze, sees Liam dancing with his new-found friend—polite hand at the small of her back, never straying lower, but still not enough space between their bodies to slip a ruler into. The nuns at Lou’s old primary school would have disapproved.  
  
Louis looks back at Harry, who’s still looking at Liam and the girl. And Lou thinks, ‘Gotcha, twat,’ for one dizzy, delirious second.  Out loud he says, “It's Thalestris, Queen of the Amazons,” rolling his eyes. Then, “Don't know, do I? They've just met.”  
  
Harry only grunts, tapping the lip of his Corona against his mouth. “S'fit.”  
  
It’s too much for Louis to let go; especially not after the conversation he’s just had with Liam. “Yeah, she is,” Louis says, a bit snappishly. “So maybe give Li five minutes of a chance with her, how about?”  
  
Harry blinks over at him. “The hell, Lou?” he says, clearly not understanding.  
  
Louis sighs. “Nothing, nevermind. Where's Susan?”  
  
“Who?” Harry blinks again, then shrugs. “Oh, dunno. Somewhere around, I imagine.”  
  
“Unbelievable,” Louis mutters.  
  
“What?” Harry’s not paying even a little attention, anymore. And Louis is kind of drunk, and feeling protective towards one friend, and vindictive towards another. It was bound to make him do or say something incredibly stupid before long.  
  
“So, Haz,” Louis says, deliberately using Liam’s nickname for him, drawing it out obnoxiously. “You’re not, like, into Liam or anything, right?”  
  
That certainly gets Harry’s focus. His eyes fly back to Louis’s face, while Louis does his best to hold on to a mildly inquisitive expression. “Into—” Harry says. “No, no, ‘course not. We’re mates, you know that.” He takes a drink from his beer, looking away.  
  
Louis goes for broke. “Brilliant—so like, you won’t mind, then, if I have a go at him?”  
  
Harry almost spits his beer out. “Sorry, who?” he rasps after choking for a few seconds, wiping his wrist across his mouth.  
  
“Liam, our mutual acquaintance, Liam Payne. I’ve been thinking about it. I’m gonna ask him out, just wanted to make sure it was sorted with you first. Since you’re his best mate, and all.”  
  
Harry stares at him. “Lou,” he says, slowly. “Lou, you’re straight.”  
  
“Am I?” Louis squints his eyes, as if pondering it. “Anyway, Uni’s for experimenting, isn’t it? And when you think about it, Liam’s good for that, right? He’s a nice lad—wouldn’t even get upset with me if I decided it was too weird, or whatever—we could totally fuck and still be friends.”  
  
“You’re so full of shit,” Harry says, after a long enough pause that Louis’s started to sweat. But he’s gone too far to turn back now: if this were a hand of poker, Lou’d be pushing his chips across the table, all in.  
  
“Come on, Hazza,” Louis says, cajoling, leaning close. He lowers his voice to something less than a shout, something more conspiratorial. “Are you telling me you’ve never thought about trying it on? Like, Liam’s mouth—practically made for sucking dick, our Liam. He’s probably really good at it, you know? He tries so hard at everything.”  
  
“Stop taking the piss,” Harry says, low, but he’s not meeting Louis’s eyes. His mouth has gone tight, muscle ticking in his jaw as he glares at the floor—oh, man, he’s angry. This might be the angriest Lou’s ever seen Harry, maybe.  
  
Louis’s teased Harry a hundred times before, in a hundred different ways—it’s great and infuriating, because Harry’s so laidback, normally, just takes it—but nothing’s ever come as close to actually getting as rise out of him as this, as Louis talking about Liam and sex in the same context for two minutes. So that’s probably why Louis doesn’t check himself, right there; he always has to take things that one step too far.  
  
“He probably takes dick like a champ, too, when you think about it,” Louis goes on, smirking. “Which is great for me, like, I'm sure as shit not gonna roll over for him on my first go round with a bloke, not that he’d even want me to—”  
  
The next thing Louis knows is a loud ringing in his ears, and a rough impact as his back and head meet the ground, rattling his brain around in his skull. The room spins and spins, but Louis can fuzzily make out Harry towering over him like a curly-haired behemoth, all closed fists and flashing eyes and flaming breath. Well, maybe that last bit is exaggerated.  
  
“Fuck,” Louis gasps, then, louder when the pain catches up to him, “Ow, fuck, I knew you liked him!”  
  
“Take it back,” Harry says, and doesn’t seem to be talking about that—he’s still stuck on the Louis-hypothetically-fucking-Liam thing. Sweet, passive, one paisley-print headband away from joining a hippie love parade Harry Styles, standing over someone with bloody knuckles. Louis’d be impressed, if his nose weren’t throbbing so much.  
  
“I was having you on, okay, you idiot?” Louis tells him, rather thickly. He holds his hand up to his nose. It feels hot, and wet. Shit, it better not be broken; he’s rather attached to his face the way it is. Louis is perhaps not feeling in the most generous of spirits when he adds, “I mean, if you weren’t so fucking dense, though, I wouldn’t have had to.”  
  
After a beat, Harry’s angry stance drifts into something lost, his fingers flexing and unflexing against his thighs. “Hang on... you were lying?” Harry says, slower on the uptake than normal.  
  
That’s when Liam chooses to show up, pushing his way through the crowd that’d immediately formed around their little commotion, people buzzing about the possibility of a drunken bar brawl. Louis almost hates to disappoint them. He glances around, sees Niall hanging off the bouncer, trying to use his tiny little Irish body to keep Harry and Louis from being thrown out on their arses.  
  
“Lou, what—” Liam says, eyes wide and darting worriedly over them both. He picks up on the tiny scrape on Harry’s hand almost faster than should be possible, and Liam’s face twists into something bewildered. “Haz, what is this—what the hell did you do?” he asks. He bends down, gets hands under Lou’s arms, helping him stand up. Louis gets his feet under him, dizzy for a second. He hopes that’s the alcohol at work more than any, like, brain damage.  
  
Harry doesn’t speak. Louis sighs, does it for him. “It's fine, it's whatever. I deserved it, sort of,” he says, brushing off his clothes with the hand that’s not cupped over his nose. There’s already a few stains down the front of his shirt, though, sod Harry and his not-so-noodly-arms. The kid can throw a punch.  
  
Liam pulls Lou's hand away, grimacing as he sees the bleeding. “Shit, we'd better go take care of that,” he says. Then, to Harry, and a lot more forcefully: “Well? Are you gonna just stand there, or can you at least get some bloody ice?”  
  
Harry flinches at that, finally seeming to snap out of the frozen trance he'd been in. Liam doesn't see it, though, too busy pulling Louis away towards the loo.  
  
There’re a couple other lads in there already, but they clear out quick when Liam manhandles Louis up onto the counter by the sink. Louis tries not to roll his eyes, because it hurts like hell, he’s discovered. Liam grabs a generous handful of damp paper towels, holding them up to Lou's nose, gently showing him where to pinch.  
  
“Here—you're supposed to tilt your head down, actually, let the blood flow out till it clots,” Liam says.  
  
“Wow,” Louis says, muffled. “You're like a bloody nose expert, aren’t you?”  
  
“Might've had a few in my day.” Liam shrugs after Louis quirks an eyebrow at him. “Bullies. Then sports. Anyway, are you gonna tell me what the hell that was about, back there?”  
  
“Ah, ‘bout that—I might've said something to provoke him, a bit.”  
  
“Goddamnit, Louis, is this about that Harry stealing my dates bullshit? Because I've told you, he doesn't—”  
  
With as much perfect timing as ever, Harry shoulders through the door to the loo, and Liam bites back whatever it was he was saying. Harry stops just inside, awkwardly holding up a plastic bag filled with ice.  
  
After a second, he clears his throat. “Here, I brought—” but then he hesitates, looking back and forth between Liam and Louis, taking in their expressions. Well, Liam’s mostly, probably. Louis still has a wad of bloody tissues over his face. Harry shifts on his feet, mouth tense. He says, carefully, “Hey, Liam, can I talk to you for a minute? Just, like, alone?”  
  
Liam groans, scrubbing his hands over his eyes, then his hair, heedless now of the styling he’s messing up. “That's not—you don’t—” he tries, frustrated. “Listen, I think I know what this is about, and it's crazy, alright? Can I just say it? Haz, I don't think that you're jealous of me, or whatever rubbish Louis's said. I've never thought that—Lou, he's just—he’s pissed off his arse right now, plus he's kind of an idiot—”  
  
Lou raises his free hand, waving it. “This idiot's sat right here, thanks.”  
  
Harry looks absolutely miserable, for his part. “No, Liam, you haven’t—” Harry rakes his fingers through his fringe, sweeping it impatiently to the side. His hand looks like it’s shaking. “Look, you don’t understand.”  
  
They’re interrupted by the chirp of Liam’s mobile echoing loud off the tiled floor and walls. Harry stops talking, and Liam pulls his phone out, eyes skidding a glance to Louis as he does. “It’s, uh. It’s from Dani,” Liam says, checking the screen.  
  
Louis looks over at Harry, who’s frozen again. Lou sneers, best as he can with an aching nose. He says, “Well, then, what does the lovely Danielle have to say, Liam?”  
  
Liam reads the text to himself, lips moving minutely over the words. His eyes goes wide as he does, shocked, and then a second later the walls come up, turning everything about him to stone. Well, shit. Louis really hates it when he’s right, sometimes.  
  
Wordlessly, Liam hands the mobile to Louis, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s holding himself back, holding something in.  
  
Louis reads Danielle’s message.  
  
 _‘hey, leemo! that was a bit out of the blue, yeah? i guess i might as well tell you, yeah, harry did ask me out, like, right after you and i got together, i think. turned him down, obvs! anyway, miss you babes! xxx’_  
  
After he’s done, he repeats the text out loud, even though it makes Liam’s shoulders hunch up even more, but Louis’s doing it for Harry’s benefit. He’s paid off by Harry dropping the melting ice to the ground, seeing his hands go over his face, hiding it for just a few seconds. “Oh, bloody fuck,” he says, low enough that Louis might not have caught it, except for how dead quiet it’s gone in the room.  
  
When he speaks next, Harry’s voice sounds as shaky as his hands, brittle like sandpaper. “Let me explain, Li, alright,” he says.  
  
“It’s true, then? It’s really true,” Liam says, and he even laughs, but it’s painful to hear, like it hurt his throat coming out. “Jesus, Hazza, do you really—everyone that I fancy, anyone I think I might actually have a chance with, you try to—you—” Louis has to look away from the wet shine of Liam’s eyes, wincing, but watching Harry crumple like soggy newspaper under Liam’s words isn’t much better. In the end, Louis stares at his shoes, toes pressing against the dingy floor.  
  
“So this is what, like, some kind of game?” Liam asks, roughly. “You think it’s funny, how easy it is? To make people not think twice about me, or look at me anymore?”  
  
“No, God. Liam, no, I swear it’s not like that.”  
  
Liam breaks at that, losing it. “Then what the fuck is it like?” he shouts. “Explain it to me, huh? Because I thought we were mates, yeah? So explain to me why I defended you, before Louis even brought it it up to me—all those times—fuck, do you even know? You don’t, do you, all the times when I thought to myself, ‘No, this makes sense, of course it makes sense—because why would anyone even want me, right, when Harry’s in the same room.’”  
  
Harry takes a breath, dragging it in like he’s sucking it up from his feet. “The first time—” he starts slow, then stops. He tries again. “The first time wasn’t on purpose.”  
  
“No, I can’t—no, you know what, I’m done. I don’t want to hear this—”  
  
“Wait—wait, would you, please—”  
  
Louis looks up, alarmed, at the sound of scuffling, but he sees it’s Harry holding tight to the sleeve of Liam’s shirt, and his wrist, while Liam strains away towards the door—not using all his strength, Lou can tell; Liam could break away if he really wanted to. But he certainly doesn’t look happy about it.  
  
“They shouldn’t have,” Harry says, as close to shouting as he ever gets. The expression on his face looks absolutely destroyed, there’s a damp shine on his cheeks like he’s smeared tears across them, red rimming his eyes—but for all that weakness, he also looks like he’ll die before he lets Liam walk away from him, out the door.  
  
“They should never have looked at me,” Harry’s saying, “I could never understand it when they did. And then it made me angry, and I thought, if they would look at me like that, who else would they—and I just, I wanted to protect you, alright? I didn’t want to see you hurt, I’m sorry—God, Liam, I’m so fucking sorry.”  
  
Lou’s chest goes tight and painful before he realizes he’s been holding his breath for too long, and he has to actually breathe, even if he doesn’t want to intrude right now by flicking so much as an eyelash.  
  
“That makes no sense,” Liam’s mouth is twisted down, he’s shaking his head, back and forth, “Why would you—how is that helping me, it’s not, you couldn’t possibly think that, that’s mental—”  
  
“I know, I know it is, it’s so fucked up,” Harry’s voice is barely scraping out now, almost breathless, like he’s been gutted. “I thought, I don’t even know—maybe that if they went for me, they didn’t deserve you. And I was jealous, alright, I’ve always been jealous over you, since forever. Except it’s only gotten worse, hasn’t it, and sometimes I can barely breathe because of it, and I never knew what to do to make it stop.”  
  
“This isn’t right, Harry—this isn’t—this isn’t fair, at all.” This time when Liam yanks his arm back, Harry lets him go—it’s that, or his hands have gone numb from gripping so tight. “You can’t just say things like that to me, you can’t—what about what I’ve felt, has that even mattered? I’m the one who has to watch you go off with someone new, all the fucking time, and it’s always like a kick to the stomach—”  
  
Louis looks on, almost as shocked as Liam seems to be, when Harry suddenly lunges forward, grabbing his face and kissing him on the mouth, making a harsh, desperate sound against it as he does. Louis doesn’t see quite what happens next, it’s too fast, but Harry is stumbling away from Liam like he’s been shoved, and Liam looks ready to either throw a punch at him, or burst into tears, or both.  
  
“Don’t—you can’t just do that,” Liam shouts. “Do you even get it? I’m in love with you, you bastard; I’m fucking in love with you. So, just—for the love of God, please, stop messing me about, I can’t take it—”  
  
“I love you,” Harry says back, immediately. “I do, Liam, I’m in love with you, I’m so in love with you, I mean it—”  
  
Louis holds his breath again. This time it’s Liam who lunges, but Harry just catches him, hands fisting up in Liam’s t-shirt, pulling him in like he can’t believe it’s allowed, like this is a chance that’ll never come back—and then, well—they’re kissing, again, aren’t they. Rather a lot.  
  
Louis looks away, of course, because he is a gentlemen. And he catches sight of himself in the mirror, grinning ridiculously huge, it’s stupid, so he pulls a face and makes himself stop, even though the heart-brimming-over feeling stays put, but he can’t help that.  
  
He checks his nose, sees the bleeding has stopped, but he’ll need to get some ice on it soon, before it swells up too much. He pulls out his mobile, sends a reassuring text to Niall, lets him know everything’s been sorted. Then he sends kind of a soppy text to El, just because—so he misses her, it’s whatever—and then he looks at the time and geez, Harry and Liam are still going at it. And they’re blocking the door, the idiots.  
  
Louis doesn’t have to watch, but it’s not like he can stop himself from hearing stuff, can he? The sound of kissing is absolutely unmistakable, for one, but then there’s all this really gross, mushy stuff going on: like, Liam pulling away for a breath to say, “Wait, wait, you really—?” and Harry answering back,  
  
“For so long, Liam, yeah, been killing me—” And then there’s the soft, almost pleading way Harry keeps murmuring, “Sorry, I’m so sorry,” in between kisses, words not quite lost against Liam’s skin.  
  
When Liam’s breathing gets decidedly gaspier, Louis knows he’s had enough. He clears his throat. “Yeah, um—still here, fellas, by the way.”  
  
“Piss off, Louis,” Harry says, from against Liam’s mouth.  
  
Louis huffs, indignant. “Well, I like that! That’s gratitude, for you. I mean, I practically orchestrated this whole interlude, when you think about it, got battle wounds in the process—I might at least get some thanks for it, but no, ‘course not—”  
  
“Thanks, Lou,” Liam says, but he’s laughing, and they’re still kissing. “Piss off, Lou,” he says.  
  
Louis huffs again, but he hops off the the counter, squeezing past their tangle of stupidly long limbs and the first stall by the door. He can see which side of the bread the butter’s on, it’s fine, he’s leaving. Niall and Zayn are gonna want the play-by-play, anyway.  
  
And he’s gone just in time, apparently, because the last sight he has of them before the the door swings shut, is of Harry sliding to his knees at Liam’s feet, eyes dark and heavy with intent, and Liam’s fingers grazing over Harry’s cheek, then his mouth, touching almost reverently.  
  
Well, Louis thinks. Harry does have a lot of shit to make up for, after all.  
  
Louis waves off a pair of blokes coming to use the loo. He’s amazed that Liam and Harry made it this far without an interruption, really. Maybe Liam’s having some uncommonly good luck, for a change.  
  
“Jog on, lads, closed for maintenance—it’s fine, I know a guy who works here,” Louis tells them. They make offended noises, but he ignores them. For good measure, Louis even puts up one of those janitors' signs in front of the door, and then jogs off himself, before he can accidentally overhear anything that’s gonna scar him for life.  
  
Man, Louis really is the greatest mate ever.


End file.
